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Who Loves Bread?

One of my passwords is bread. My female chickens find this humorous. Fall on the floor humorous. It was a security question–what is your favorite food? Duh. The Chickens are in Bama together last year, Roll Tide, and they want access to something requiring my password. I don’t remember the password. The hint they say, is–favorite food.

“Bread,” say I. Simple. Peels of laughter and the sounds of girls falling off hotel beds is their response.

Bread is my perfect food. Many believe Paris holds my heart because it is the place The Norwegian and I shared mad skills, strolled along the Champs Elysees and shopped for perfectly tailored suits. We were young and reckless. Suits from Paris seemed an appropriate spend. But no, it was the bread. Warm baguettes, fresh from the oven, beckoned from the bakery next door each morning and the sweet butter melting into every crevice made my eyes close of their own accord. Tearing off a hunk sans condiment will buoy any girl through an exhausting day of shopping. The reason women love Paris is not the romance, La Tour Eiffel or the berets. It’s the bread.

And now bread is bad. I have fought the anti-bread campaign for many years. It is one of my sweat-inducing thoughts upon waking each day.”Is bread still bad? Is bread still bad?” Alas, it does make the tummy round, creating a “food baby” as Baby Chicken says. I cannot resist. Warm, crusty flour and yeast melt my heart and I become Pavlov’s dog. And sheath dresses are so unforgiving of food babies. Dammit.

I make allowances. If I eat bread this morning, I won’t eat anything else all day long. Until that client lunch. Okay, now I’m done for the day. But it’s three o’clock and I’m having an afternoon slump at my desk so just a wee bit of chocolate with my coffee? It can’t hurt. I won’t have dinner. Okay, I didn’t eat so I can have wine. Can you hear my ass laughing out loud? I give her everything she needs to spread out and take over. Bitch.

In pondering the best things in life I discover that bread, pumps and pearls have quite a bit in common. How so, you say?

Thing One: A gift of any of the three will find a man rewarded handsomely. If only men learned it’s neither chocolates nor roses he should hide behind his back; it’s a crusty baguette, a pair of pumps or a simple strand of pearls. Yummy on all counts.

Thing Two: All are rare and elusive; as the best things usually are. It is no easy task finding perfectly knotted pearls in the loveliest shade. Equally as difficult is the perfect pump. Possessing an expansive collection makes the task that much harder. Platform or no? Pointed or round toe? Stadium or plain black? Bow or plain? I can’t resist my friend: no platform, pointed toe, stadium and always go for the bow. The same goes for bread. A perfect crust paired with a light airy interior is an artful creation not easily found in the bread aisle. In fact, never found in the average bread aisle. Pfft.

Thing Three: Bread will comfort you in your darkest hour. Nothing will cure a breakup, a botched haircut or a hangover faster than a warm boule with havarti slices. So put on your pearls and pumps and dig in doll.

Thing Four: A girl can live on bread alone as easily as she can in pearls and pumps. Given the proper quantities of these essentials, any doll can thrive.

Thing Five: All three perfectly grace a white linen clothed table in a fine restaurant. The pumps are for stroking his leg under the table; the pearls for twirling round your finger as you seduce him and the bread plays centerpiece and holds your tapenade. Add champagne and the night becomes perfection.

Thing Six: All are versatile. You can look fabulous eating bread while wearing pearls and pumps whether it be in jeans (that would be you, not me) a simple sheath or nothing at all–the choice is yours dear.

Thing Seven: All three are good for the psyche. All three are sigh inducing. What this flour and water concoction does for the brain is nothing short of swoon worthy. If only we were allowed unfettered access to bread, there would be no need for pesky anti-depressants to keep us from killing our neighbors.

Thing Eight: Nothing is more appropriate to lounge about in than pumps and pearls. Lord knows the carb overload causes inordinate layabout time.

Let’s consider for one moment things which would not exist without this baked finery. There would be no pb and j’s, no bruschetta and no place for brie to melt becoming gooey and irresistible. The world would indeed be a sorrier place were it not for this staff of life.

I go along with my skinny girlfriends when we are in public. You know who you are bitches. When we gather for sustenance they squee about naughtiness as the bread basket rounds the table. I, in ladylike fashion, tear off a small bit of pretzel roll. I don’t do what I long to do–cram that glob of salty outside and sweet, soft inside into my pie hole experiencing it’s warmth in one solid delicious orb. There are girls in my secret society. We eat bread with wild abandon–in private.

I admit it. I remove bread from the oven, slather it with butter, no margarine for this girl, shove it in my gullet and feel the need to take a chair steadying my ecstasy. Girlfriends, far and wide, who feel my pain: Come over anytime. The bread’s on me.

The other plus? Of the trio of life’s best, bread is the least expensive. A girl can grab up a fine specimen in the specialty bread aisle baked somewhere other than the average grocer and still have money left for dress up. Dress up may include a lovely jam or a beautiful chutney to slather atop your treasure. I refuse to quit. I simply refuse. I’m taking a stand for myself and wide-assed women everywhere.

I will eat warm croissants for breakfast, sometimes filled with chocolate. I will stuff bread with melty, gooey cheese and eat the whole thing for dinner. I will slather butter, tapenade and fine fruit spreads onto a warm, crusty holder. Besides, as any girl knows, lettuce has never been a decent receptacle for a mayonnaise infused chicken salad. Pfft.

We can always let out our dresses. Isn’t that why God invented tailors? Pumps–well, those dear, are always the perfect size regardless of ass expansion. Same goes for pearls. Perfect, non?

I have heard that Tammy Coe’s husband has opened a bakery…think it’s called JR’s bread or RJ’s…..his bread is unreal and can be picked up at her new shop. I haven’t gone yet, but this is what they told me at Singh’s Farm one Sat. morning when I asked where they purchased their bread….so yummy!